


To Utter His Name

by switmikan74



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Elizabeth comes to her senses, Elizabeth has identity crisis, Elizabeth makes the final choice, F/M, Hurt Elizabeth, Our!Ciel thought he was abandoned by the person he loves most, POV Elizabeth, What is even this tags?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23680825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/switmikan74/pseuds/switmikan74
Summary: The unraveling was all the more painful once she utters his name.
Relationships: Elizabeth Midford & Ciel Phantomhive, Elizabeth Midford/Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 8
Kudos: 95





	To Utter His Name

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a guess on how Elizabeth is fairing. I hate how people just jump and hated Elizabeth again once she points her finger against our!Ciel. She is the rawest character in the manga. The psychological effects on her will be dire. She was made to believe that she should be the fiancée of the Queen’s watchdog. And as a child, that could equate as a duty to be in love with that fiancée. She was always pushed to real!Ciel’s side so she could be comfortable at the idea of being his fiancée. All her life, she was dedicated to become the wife of the Queen’s watchdog. The pain in realizing that she had been unknowingly too cruel towards our!Ciel will be really grave. I don’t know if others just skipped the ‘what a heartless thought’ part! She was devastated to discover that her ‘love’ has been a lie—an integral part of her built up identity. Well, for me.

She was not pure nor was she ever pure.

Perhaps, her innocence was a mere illusion created by her ignorance. Perhaps, her purity was a deluded notion to elevate her into a pedestal she does not deserve. Perhaps, everything about her was an intricate lie, one after the other, to manipulate her identity.

Who was she really?

All she knows now is her name. Elizabeth Ethel Cordelia Midford. Behind the green eyes, behind the childish hairstyle, behind the cute and nice things, behind the swords, behind everything that make up her current self, there was nothing. Lies. Everything was a lie.

She lied about liking the cute things to soften her image. Her lovely fiancée has explicitly told her about his fear of marrying strong scary women like her mother. Wasn’t it her duty to follow the silhouette of a woman her little fiancée would love?

She lied about being weak. All to satisfy the wishes of her fiancée. So that her fiancée would be stronger than she is. So that her fiancée would be able to protect her as she quivers in fear of big scary things.

She lied about her appearance. Wearing low-heeled shoes to never be bigger than her fiancée. How would he be able to protect her if he’s smaller than she was? His need to be stronger was apparent. She needed to barrow into the shell of a pathetically weak fiancée to be able to stand beside him.

She lied about her love. How could she be able to call it love? When she couldn’t distinguish between her fiancée and _him_? It was a mere illusion, now she knew better. She was in love with the thought of being in love. She pushed the idea into the very fiber of her soul. Such a farce. Such extravagant stupidity to anchor her whole identity on the wishes of her fiancée, on the wishes of her mother, on the illusions of her phony love.

Take her fiancée away, take her dresses and shoes, take her swords, take her title as the wife of the queen’s watchdog, who is she now?

Since everything came to light, everything is a mess. Chaos is what the twins brought to her doorsteps. Or perhaps—perhaps, she had stepped into the chaos a long time ago, unaware (or choosing to ignore) about the danger of claiming that so-called love she crooned.

Fourteen years of existence and all she ever did was to be cruel. To herself. To her family. And most of all to _him_.

He was always just an afterthought. A shadow to look at behind Ciel. The fading laughter in an empty room as she and Ciel chase one another. The tail end of a flickering flame. The lighter steps following the heavier stomps of her fiancée. The lonely basin gathering the love that spilt from Ciel’s own.

When she thought she had lost her fiancée, she mourned and mourned, colored herself black in the image of misery. For her fiancée, she drowned in sadness. But for _him_ , she only ever respectfully lighted a candle, to honor _his_ existence—that _he_ existed.

Now, she doesn’t know if her sadness was for losing her first love or for losing her place—because she was made to believe that she would be the wife of the queen’s watchdog—without Ciel, all those rigorous training were for naught. And oh! How cruel was she to ever light a candle to an afterimage to look the part of a mourning fiancée who had lost everything.

When he appeared, she uttered her fiancée’s name with resolute desperation, foregoing ever questioning for the survival of _him_? God. She’s so stupidly callous. She wondered what he felt all these years as she called his name happily, confessed her love in that loud and firm way she does, promised to protect him at all cost—and then abandoned him now when she discovers that he wasn’t who she thought he was.

Was she always this shallow?

Has she always been cruel?

* * *

“Brother.” Her voice was hoarse from all her crying, eyes rimmed with the redness from exhausting her feelings. She hasn’t seen the light for days. Hidden away in her room, she poured her fiber into thinking and thinking and thinking.

“Lizzy!” The worried cry from her brother comforted her. At the very least, she is honestly cared for. Unlike her worries for the Phantomhive twins. She’s probably the fakest of all in the Midford household. She weakly smiles, “I’m to going to Ciel’s.”

“Are you sure? You’re still…” The hesitation is clear, the ringing _a mess_ was loud in her ears. She nods, “I want to be with him as long as I can. He—he might be lonely. All alone in that big house.”

Defeatedly, her brother Edward relented.

Silently, she gathers herself. The ride to the manor is full with uncomfortable thoughts. Probing. Mocking. She is inhaling sharply, almost chasing the air as if she would also lose the ability to breathe. She is glad that she has left Paula behind. She doesn’t think Paula could handle more if she sees her break again. The arrival was heavier, her steps sounding too loud in her ears, she is a quivering mess of thought and then—

“Lizzy! My darling Lizzy.” Ciel’s soft voice rings across the empty distance between them and her eyes dart beside him for a moment before settling on his figure. Ah. He’s really Ciel. Somehow, there is a prick in her heart that she dismisses as guilt. She closes their distance and when Ciel pulls her so he could kiss her cheeks, she almost recoils. She steadies herself, accepting the affection Ciel is showing her. Even when her skin tingles, as if in rejection.

“My darling Lizzy, how I miss you.” She used to see Ciel smiles a lot, his brightness has always allured her. But it’s so strange. The weaving of an upside rainbow on his face feels different. It feels—

“I miss you too.” She cuts her thought, pushing with words that should come naturally but aren’t. Wasn’t this what she wanted? For Ciel to smile, for Ciel to be open with his affection for her? Wasn’t it?

She follows Ciel to his office. He blabbers about something and she nods and quips when it is good for her to respond. He draws this elaborate plan, laying everything bare because— _“you are my fiancée, aren’t you, Lizzy? You should know all about this.”_

 _This_. She knows what he meant. To be the wife of the queen’s watchdog, one can never immerse herself in light. Being the wife of the queen’s watchdog meant she should adjust her eyes to the eternal darkness she is bound to walk through.

“What do you think, Lizzy?” To Ciel’s question, she lowers her eyes and replies, “Wouldn’t it be better to keep the company?”

“But Lizzy,” Ciel’s tone is condescending and she flinches, “The company is _his_ business. What nobility would make use of a commoner’s job?”

She grapples for an answer. Anything. But—why is she even making an effort? For _him_?

 _(Oh dear Lizzy, isn’t it high time to repent for your cruelty against_ him? _You were so happy to know that_ he _died instead of Ciel, weren’t you? Now, the real Ciel is killing off everything that was actually_ him.)

“Because…” She starts—as the wife of the queen’s watchdog, how would you finish that sentence?—“Because it could be used more as a cover up, wouldn’t it? Just… just like the Sphere Music Hall incident. When something happens, as a… as a businessman, you could try to use the company to counter the evil deeds of the Underground.”

Ciel’s face scrunches in contemplation before sliding a smile across his face, “That is a wonderful thought. You really deserve to be called my wife, Lizzy. Once we reach the legal age, you would officially become a Phantomhive. It will not be long now, Lizzy. With such talent, you can’t be anyone else’s than my wife.”

She felt suffocated. There’s a feeling of vomiting boiling within her. But instead, she crinkles her lips into a smooth smile.

“Yes, Ciel.”

* * *

She doesn’t know when it started. It was a careful transition. But suddenly, it seems, she was living in the Phantomhive manor more and more than her own home. Shackled. She felt shackled.

Ciel seems adamant in keeping her by his side. Two weeks ago when she only visited, she was offered to stay for another day. And another day. And another day. And another day. Now, it felt like she is glued by his side. Always speaking when asked. Always smiling back when smiled upon. Always trying to please the difficult fluctuation of Ciel’s mood. Always by his side.

Thrice that it has happened when Ciel came bounding upon her room, eyes in that hazy manner, seeking her. All she could do was be embraced by him, accept all the murmurs he whispers.

Twice she had thought about leaving but couldn’t. Her feet grow cold whenever she steps close to the door. Ciel’s voice pulling her back to the cage they built together.

Once she had guiltily sought for _him_. She crumbles from the mere thought. How could she seek for something she had abandoned? She heaves and heaves, pretending that Ciel isn’t watching her from a distance.

This is her repentance. To spend her life with the man she was so happy to be alive—the catalyst to her destruction, the sinking realization of her counterfeit love, the shackles for her ignorance. To be unhappy in an identity she built up for her ever so dear fiancée.

She will love him. One day she would. But for now, she would throw her life away to keep him alive.

* * *

“Lizzy.” Her brother’s voice broke her train of thought. She looks at him and sees the pain clear in his eyes, “Let’s go home.”

She shakes her head, “I can’t. I can’t go back anymore, brother.”

“What do you mean?” She is nothing but gracious with her answer, painfully blunt to the point of stabbing the truth straight to her brother’s heart, “I must repent to all the heartless things I’ve done. Beside Ciel is where I should be then.”

“You have done nothing wrong, Lizzy.” She grits her teeth at the denial, slamming her hands on the table, she shouts all the thoughts that kept her up all night. She can’t be denied from accepting all her mistakes.

“I abandoned _him_! I abandoned _him_ , brother!” She lashes out, “Not only when the real Ciel came back. But I abandoned _him_ a long time ago! All I cared about was Ciel. I could have cared for him back then too. He was so frail, so weak. While we were running about, he was confined within this big house. How lonely has he been? How lonely do you think he has always been? Keeping all his heartaches to himself so we could smile?”

Back then, when they speak to one another, it was only ever brief as her attention was always immediately captured by Ciel. Her eyes always stray towards the stronger twin even when _he_ was telling her something. All _he_ was to her was the weak brother of her beloved fiancée. So when they thought they died, she only ever mourned for Ciel. She cried countless nights for her beloved fiancée, all the while simply paying respect to _him_ , as if _his_ death was also an afterthought. _Who had mourned for_ him then? Who had honestly mourned for _him_?

All of this she had articulated in crescendo, her voice rising with every tear that falls from her eyes. Bitterly she added, “When he came back bearing the face I had missed, did I ever call out for _his_ name? I didn’t. I only called Ciel. I shoved _his_ fear back to _his_ face that people are so happy that at least it was Ciel that survived, not _him_. I shoved my happiness for the survival of my fiancée to _him_ so many times. Even when there are times that made me doubt _his_ identity, I pushed it to the very back of my mind. _He_ was so frail, so weak, how would _he_ be able to survive that torture? I never stop to even question about _him_? Even in grave, I had abandoned _him_. Everything about my love for the whole existence of Ciel was a lie. I only satisfied my ego so I could claim to be his _fiancée_.”

Her brother looked at her in the sad way that drags her down even more. She looks away, eyes closing as she savors the silence that perpetuated after her declaration. How could her brother rebut? There was no room for it. Because what she had said were the truth.

However—

“Lizzy.” Her brother called, softly he said, “I don’t think your love was ever a lie.”

“How could you say that?” She was flabbergasted, disappointed at her brother’s faith to her. He shakes his head, “I believed that maybe at the beginning, your affection was merely an illusion of being given the title of fiancée to the heir of the Phantomhive. But as years go by, after _he_ had returned, I’ve never seen you happier when you are beside him. Sure, I could feel a wave of sadness from you. But, sadness is different from love, is it not? When you hid your swords away for Ciel, you always look as if you would break. But the moment _he_ told you it was okay to be a strong woman, you immediately dispose the idea of being just cute. You were happy not hiding your skills. You were happy to be free from the constraint of your resolution to only ever be protected.”

“That’s just my selfishness.” She counters but her brother continued on, “You have your doubts yet you still continue to invest yourself on _him_. Everything that you have done might all be fake for you. But what you are feeling now makes them true. Lizzy, who do you actually seek even after everything?”

She doesn’t answer out loud because there was a name already to that face.

“All I want is for you to be happy.” The parting words of her brother should be soothing but it ached her guilt more.

Later at night, she goes to Ciel’s room, embraces him, and apologizes as she cries. When morning comes, she is long gone.

Ciel trashes the whole room.

* * *

It wasn’t long before she located Lau’s den. She wasn’t trained to be the wife of the queen’s watchdog for nothing. She is beauty. She is grace. She is intelligence. She is everything that a wife of the dirtiest and darkest nobleman should be.

“Where is he?” The glint of her sword against the startled Chinese meant business. She pressed lightly, enough to draw blood. Lau chuckles, “Lady Elizabeth! Goodness, this humble place of mine does not suit your beauty at all.”

“I do not care where I am right now. I asked you a certain question. Answer it.” Lau gulps before steadily replying, “He’s still at Brighton’s.”

“What is he doing there?” She needs to see him. She has something to say—something very important. Lau smiles at her, “I don’t think an enemy should know the business of our lord. I’m not a sellout, you know.”

Enemy. Is that what they are now?

She relinquishes Lau from her hold and before Lau could say another thing, she disappears into the night, not a single sound emitting from her. Her footsteps as silent as the dead as she travels across the pavement and into the location she was given.

* * *

“Sebastian!” _He_ utters as he stumbles on the ground. He grapples with his gun, trying to shoot but found the barrel empty. He is faced by an impending doom, largely surprise by the amount of the Bizarre dolls in their chosen location. The experiment seemed to still be an ongoing process.

“Young Master!” His butler’s voice rang from afar. He knew that Sebastian is too far to be able to protect him. This does not bode well for his survival. As the Bizarre dolls grew closer, he tries to get himself steady. The panic is rising but he has to calm down—he has to survive this game his twin is playing. As soon as he stands up, he was pulled down by an unsuspecting Bizarre doll.

“SHIT!” He closes his eyes, cursing his luck, waiting for his untimely death. But his death does not come. Instead, he is pushed backwards, and soon the slashing of swords filled the air. Soon enough, the groans of the undead grew to a stop.

“What happened?” He looks around and his breath stop for a moment. There stood at a distance good enough to see all her being, Elizabeth Ethel Cordelia Midford.

* * *

She looks back, unbothered by the blood that was spilt. Only when the wailings were silenced did she pauses to take a breather. The stench was awful, it had perpetuated throughout the building. Slowly, she turns to _him_.

“Elizabeth.” _He_ calls out, eyes trembling at the sight of her. She couldn’t help but let everything falls from her eyes—soon the silence was replaced by her own cries. Her apologies rang across the empty distance between them.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Once the adrenaline vanishes, she is all but a quivering mess. She is soon cocooned in an embrace she had missed. It was so different from Ciel’s embrace. Within _his_ arms, she felt the freest, unlike the caging feeling whenever she was pulled into Ciel’s arms.

“Elizabeth, what are you doing here?” _His_ voice was smooth, but _his_ movements were hesitant. As if _he_ was not supposed to embrace her anymore. As if it was all unwelcomed actions.

The unraveling was all the more painful once she utters his name.

His actions cease. And so is his breathing for a second. He shakes his head, “Elizabeth, I am not that person anymore. _He_ died.”

She shakes her head, “You are alive. It’s you that is alive.”

“I am Ciel Phantomhive.” The rejection of his own name was a dagger digging on her back. “I am the Earl of the Phantomhive Manor, the Queen’s watchdog.”

“Denounce that name. You are not him.” She utters and she felt him trembles at her cruel words. He unwraps his arms around her and the air felt colder, “Is that why you came? To force me to give up all that I work hard for?”

“No!” She denies, her heart felt so heavy, she is so exhausted, “I don’t want that.”

“Then why do you force me to give up the name?”

“I…”

Once, her aunt Anne would always tell her about the things that make up the image of a noble lady. Sugar and spice and everything nice, they’re made of this and that. Poetry over philosophy. Embroidery rather than cooking. Dance instead of chess. She was to be an unknowing angel—a girl born in the country of roses should be molded into that image.

She traces her image to the silhouette of Ciel’s wishes. A girl should be weak instead of strong. A cute one to be paraded around in high society. The noblest lady who knows all etiquette and embroiders her life away. She is everything that old Ciel wished her to be as she hid her swords behind colorful dresses.

She has always been a tad different from all the roses girls. Away from the prying eyes, she raises her swords more than her handkerchiefs. She plays the game of chess and ask more questions than recite a poem. She is everything that could support the queen’s watchdog behind the scene, carrying all her swords and strength in her little body.

But now, when everything came to light and she is in the middle of the chaos stirred by the Phantomhive twins, who is she?

“Because everything—all these hard work—should never be given to a fraud. They should be named after you.”

What is the wife of the queen’s watchdog made of? Sugar and poison and everything deceptively nice, they’re made of this and that. Philosophy and poetry. Embroidery and cooking. Dance and chess. Swords and high-heeled shoes. She should be a deceptively unknowing angel—a woman who knows when and how to cleanly eliminate everything and everyone for her husband.

“What is your choice?” She asks. But he frowns, and then he looks directly in her eyes, “I am Ciel Phantomhive, Earl of the Phantomhive Manor, the Queen’s watchdog.”

She closes her eyes, flashes of memories dancing behind her lids. For every mistake she made, for every hesitation she kept, for every doubt that built up, for every guilt she dismissed, Elizabeth made her choice.

“Then so be it.”

Who is she?

She is the daughter of the leader of the British Knights, Marquis Alexis Leon Midford, Elizabeth Ethel Cordelia Midford—the wife of the Queen’s watchdog.

And after everything, those are the ‘nice’ things her current self is made of.

-End-


End file.
